the monotony of life
by NickyFox13
Summary: England finds himself feeling bored with his life so he finds a way to break the tedium.


**A/N: This fic contains a little bit of smut. If that bugs you, turn around now. Written as a request!**

* * *

England hated his present life at the moment. Normally, he was the type who firmly believed that hate was the kind of word you avoid in every day conversation. It remained too strong word, when other, less angry words would suit the situation in a much better way. Today, however, England was one hundred percent okay with using the word hate to describe how his life he once considered content presently transformed into something utterly miserable.

If England were to be quite honest with himself (this was a rare feat, as he preferred to live in a shiny, wonderful land full of denial which told him the joys of his life if and when he ignored his problems) his life bored him. England, prideful of his many achievements, hated this fact that he felt forced to accept the mundane monotony of life. He thought of this so suddenly because there was only so many times you could find a way to subvert everything you've done in the past God-knows-how-many years of your existence in an equally violent, fascinating way.

Maybe all of those taunts he'd heard in recent months of being a stuffy old man were true. Maybe it was time to loosen his belt and let loose. Was letting loose even possible? What the hell would it even entail, anyhow? The lack of ability to discern whether or not it was possible to let loose probably should have told England something vital about himself: it was time to think of something fun to accomplish and fast. He should probably cut himself some slack in regards to this epiphany. Spontaneity wasn't really his strong suit, nor could he say "letting loose" was something. America made sure to remind him of both of these ideas and often. Too often, even. To this very moment, England heard America's nasal voice ringing in his head, telling him that he was too wound up and controlling and cared too deeply about ever little minute detail to ever enjoy something that someone could perceive as "fun".

_That's it_, England decided, _I'm going to travel somewhere new and fun and different._ It would be an adventure, this decision to travel somewhere new and unknown.

* * *

Jumping on a random plane and hoping for the best wherever it took him was probably England's most clever idea in recent memory. (That was a lie: most of England's ideas were quite clever. Their execution, however, was a different story.) Had he not trusted any random plane, he would be lost in an abyss of indecision, and retreat back home to lament in silence at how he was back where he started: alone, bored and full of self-loathing. He walked out of the airport and took in the grays of the concrete around him. The sun shone bright, welcoming him to a new city in a new country away from the stiff routine of his old home.

He was in Spain, and loving every second of it despite having barely left the airport. Luckily for England, he packed light and only brought a sturdy but fashionable khaki colored knapsack that remained firmly attached to his back. He made a beeline to the nearest pub to celebrate himself.

England found himself in a quaint yet large pub, a combination he never would have thought to see in a pub. So he enjoyed the surprisingly warm, comfortable atmosphere. He took advantage of engaging in joyous chatter and drinking. Some time later, his sight began to blur but England could have sworn he saw a familiar man in the distance with a shock of brown curls.

Oh god, it was Spain. Definitely Spain. There was a laugh that filled the air which had to belong to Spain. England ambled toward the man with the lyrical laugh who definitely was Spain.

"Hey," he slurred once he found Spain, "I know you." Spain raised an eyebrow.

"Of course you do," Spain replied curtly.

"You're...you're Antonio~" England hadn't used any nation's human names in so long that he'd almost forgotten it. He would have called him Spain but he learned the hard way that calling a nation by their nation name was a terrible idea. What was England's human name again? Arthur something-or-other. Spain's face contorted from a look of sheer terror to a more relaxed smile.

"Yes, it's me," he said, and grabbed England by the wrist.

"Where are you taking me?" England asked, his voice quiet with confusion. Spain pinned him to an empty wall, and kissed England with such a fervor that he could barely breathe. He was definitely okay with this as he returned it with a similar fervor. Spain placed his hand under England's shirt. Spain's hand traveled lower and lower until England could feel Spain's cool fingers stroking his throbbing penis. This was a wonderful sensation that ended all too early.

"Come back to me when you're sober," Spain said with a wink. England turned red and wasn't sure how to interpret this. He slunk away from the deserted corner back to the hotel he rented and passed out.

* * *

The next morning, England woke up with a painful headache and Spain's vividly green eyes staring down at him.

"Spain, what-?" England asked, his voice hoarse and his throat suddenly burning in a kind of pain he never would have expected.

"What am I doing here? Good question. You were really drunk last night so I worked my magic to help you get back." A silence fell over them as England processed Spain's comment.

"I don't want to know what happened last night or how you got here, but I'm glad you're here." England smiled at Spain, a large, genuine grin that made the once awkward moment feel much more comfortable.

"Let me leave you alone so you can get some rest," Spain said, kissed England's forehead and left. England sighed in content. This definitely wasn't the monotony he was used to back at home, and that couldn't please him more.


End file.
